Obsession
by CreamLemon
Summary: John Watson is obsessed with his best friend.  How deep does it run, and will he ever admit that he might be just a little bit gay? COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I have seen the newest episode, but I started writing this last week, so you can safely assume it took place before all that mess.

This is rated M, but I'm not sure if its a heavy M or a light M. Right now it's light, but it, might get a little out of hand in later chapters. I'll let you know before hand if it does.

*Update to let you guys know that the last chapter is *very* M and slashy, but the other chapters aren't really that bad.

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John Watson was not gay. Really. Despite what his ex girlfriends, the media, and anyone (everyone?) else thought. He liked women, liked to get off with them. Mind you, talking to them was a bit of a chore, and remembering the names of their pets, sitting around watching romantic comedies trying to get them in the mood for a shag…

He was quite normal. Before Afghanistan he had it all planned, and at this point in his life he had every expectation of being married with a kid or two, a house in the suburbs and his own practice.

Cheryl, sitting across from him at the table, was a perfect girl for that. Bottle blond, but her eyebrows were natural so going prematurely grey. Her sweater was new and she was either careless or unobservant (the tag was still attached under the sleeve). White hairs on her skirt-pet owner (more animal names he would have to remember, blast it). She carried a large, plain bag, which suggested she cared more about function and thrift than designer labels.

He had noticed all of this before they had gotten past "Hello, I never do this internet dating thing, but-" He was beginning to think like him, and it depressed him. Even when he was out on a date Sherlock Holmes invaded his mind. It was a whole lot more interesting than that wife and suburban house. The war had changed him, or maybe not. Something about life-uni, med school, the string of uninteresting but beautiful girls, had left him restless and unfulfilled. He never felt that way anymore.

Cheryl was looking at the menu. Her fingernails were bitten down-either a nervous condition or an oral fixation. He tried not to think about the latter and stood up abruptly. "I'm so sorry," he said. "This just isn't fair to you. I'd better leave."

"What do you mean not fair?"

"You are a very lovely girl but this isn't…I'm sorry."

He grabbed his jacket and hurried away, trying not to think as he walked back to Baker Street, but thinking anyway. Women were so _boring_. He had come to that conclusion years ago and had accepted it, but it was getting worse. He did not want to spend one more mind-numbing evening with one. All that effort just for a blowjob by the third date was not even worth it. If there was anyone who could have a conversation even half as stimulating as one with Sherlock that would be one thing, but he had given up.

Sherlock had lab equipment strewn all over the living room, and the entire flat had an acrid, burnt smell to it. John Watson was a Spartan sort, not too keen on clutter. Sherlock's work ebbed and flowed through the flat, from the body parts in the kitchen to his chemistry set in the living room. There was often something growing in the bath and the truth of the matter was, John didn't mind. All he did was hang up his jacket, and ask Sherlock what he had discovered.

"That when you know that heating an acid causes it to explode you should not be wearing your best dressing gown," Sherlock said morosely, sitting on the couch. His robe was covered in small spattered holes and brown stains. Johns first reaction was to check his face for burns, and while there were little splotches of redness over his finely sculpted cheekbones, he did not seem seriously injured. "Weren't you supposed to be on that internet date? I told you her picture was fake. Tell me John, how hideous was she?"

"She was fine," John said, feeling frustrated. "Looked just like the picture-it was me."

"She thought you were ugly? Well, your nose isn't quite right, but-"

"You look at my nose?" John asked, surprised.

"I _observed_ your nose. Not entirely symmetrical. Also your right ear is about a centimeter lower than your left. It's very distracting."

John stared at his friend, amazed that he had given his face that much thought, but then he remembered this was Sherlock, who had tape measures built into his brain and probably knew the measurements of everything in the flat. "As it so happens, she did not reject me. I just…couldn't put up with the thought of meeting another girl I had nothing in common with." He collapsed in the chair opposite Sherlock.

"You've never had anything in common with your dates. It never bothered you before."

"Well, I guess it does now! I'm getting too old for this…Sherlock, I quit."

"Very sensible of you. All the same, I doubt it will last."

"Oh no, it'll last. I'm done with women."

"I will spare you the humiliation of making a wager on that one. You are too connected to your carnal needs." Sherlock stood up abruptly. "Well. I believe there is some acid in my collar slowly eating its way through my skin, so I think I will go take a shower."

"Let me know if you need a doctor," John said with a sigh, and reached for the paper.

The paper held little to interest him and he set it down half-way through a story about a homeless man found dead under the bridge. He should probably check and make sure Sherlock did not have any major injuries that he would try to cover up. Within an instant he was on his feet and marching towards the bathroom. He opened the door and saw the shadow of Sherlock's slim, nude form behind the frosted shower curtain.

What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? he asked himself, and he shut the door again. He wasn't gay. He just wasn't. So why did getting that PG glimpse of Sherlock Holmes in the shower cause such a stirring? John went to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Cheryl was the first woman he had had a date with in two months. It was the possibility of sex-okay, at least some snogging-that had him riled up. A possibility he had blown, and now he wouldn't be getting any sex for the rest of his life, according to his own damn mouth.

He threw himself down on the bed and undid his zip, grabbing the tube of KY from the bedside table. He was half-hard already, and buzzing with unrequited lust for-the image of Sherlock in the shower again. No, not that. He got up again and fetched his laptop, bringing up a selection of proper, heterosexual porn. This was good. Exactly what he needed. He squirted some of the lube into his hand and got to work with one hand on the touchpad and the other on his…well.

All the same, he was acutely aware of the shower turning off, of Sherlock stepping out of the tub, rubbing a towel over his smooth skin, slipping a clean dressing gown over naked flesh to walk to his room…

John's bedroom door opened and there was Sherlock, in his red dressing gown loosely tied at the waist, droplets of water still gleaming on his pale chest. "John, I-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and gave a glance at John's hand, frozen in mid stroke, and the bastard actually _smiled_ at him. "I knew you couldn't handle it," he said, and turned away.

John was coming before he had completely shut the door.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Some fun bits in this chapter.

2.

Sara called John once or twice a week to help fill in at the surgery when they were shorthanded, but he and Sherlock were making enough money with their detecting that he no longer even thought about practicing medicine. Sherlock was the brains of course, but John took care of the phone calls, paper work, leg work, sending out the invoices, and of course he blogged about the cases, bringing in more clients and a fair amount of ad revenue.

To be honest he did a little bit more work than Sherlock when it came to the cases, and of course he did the bulk of cooking and tidying up around the flat (though Mrs. Hudson helped with that-bless her heart). He didn't miss practicing medicine, and he loved everything about working with Sherlock, even when the man himself was being terrible.

Watching him work was the most amazing thing John had ever experienced. He was so alive when he was working on a case, as excited as a child, which made John smile, and when he got into the deep thinking of his, that made him stare at nothing for hours on end, John appreciated that too because he could watch his friend without him noticing.

John Watson, it bears to be repeated, was not gay. What he was, was fascinated with his best friend.

Sherlock was doing that thing where he was thinking. He was stretched out on the sofa with one leg thrown over an arm of the couch, the other hanging on the floor. He was wearing pajamas and his feet were bare. He had the violin across his chest with one hand still across the strings, not playing anymore. The bow had fallen on the floor.

John stared at Sherlock for a long time. Eventually his eyes fell on the single bare foot propped up on the arm of the couch. Sherlock's foot was long and thin and pale—like the man himself. More neatly groomed than one would expect, but then Sherlock had impeccable hygiene, especially for a man who could be such a distracted slob about everything else.

John watched that foot for a long time. He was beginning to feel an irresistible pull to it.

He wanted to touch it.

More than that, he wanted to tickle it. He wanted to break Sherlock out of whatever revere he was in and make him pay attention to him. It was a stupid thought, he knew that, but it wouldn't go away. He'd been having a lot of stupid thoughts since making the conscious decision to go celibate, far too many of them revolving around his flatmate. It was his fault after all, the way he kept distracting John from every woman he found attractive. Remembering a woman's favorite band or whether she preferred Italian or Chinese food was tedious when there were so many more exciting things going on.

Except there was nothing exciting going on at that moment.

John stood up and put aside his paper, feeling restless. He paced the room for a few minutes. In that time Sherlock had not moved a single muscle. John was fairly certain he hadn't even blinked. "Sherlock," John said his name. No reply. "Sherlock?" Nothing. He poked at Sherlock's leg, the one with the offending foot, and still received no reaction from his friend.

To do it would be wrong. Sherlock would definitely suspect something was...odd. (Nothing, nothing was odd because John Watson was not gay.) Or maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe...

John reached out with a single finger, and traced it across the bottom of Sherlock's foot. He stared at it, waiting for it to twitch...nothing.

"Can I help you John?" Sherlock said, causing John to jump backwards away from his foot. John felt his face flush red with shame. What was he thinking?

"I, er, nothing," he muttered and fled without looking at Sherlock, going into his room and shutting the door firmly behind him, heart beating as though he were a child caught shoplifting for the first time. How could he face Sherlock again? What would he say? John threw himself on his bed and buried his burning face in his pillow. Why did he do stupid things? He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He did stupid things because it was Sherlock.

Of all the men he had ever been friends with, out of all the women he had slept with, not one of them had ever brought such a surge of emotions out of him. Such joy, when Sherlock was being wonderful, but also rage and frustration that made him want to kill, and absolute fear unlike any he had ever felt.

The emotional highs and lows of war were nothing compared to living with Sherlock Holmes. He evoked pure passion, through and through. John wanted and needed that passion more than anything. Sex had nothing to do with it. He didn't need sex to get off when he was working a case with Sherlock. Well, it would be nice, sex...but he wasn't gay.

Sherlock would think he was. What other reason would he have to tickle another man's foot? It was a humiliating urge, one he should have resisted.

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When he emerged hours later Sherlock was dissecting a pigeon on the kitchen table. "I think it was murder, John," he said, prodding at the tiny organs with a scalpel and a fork. "We're out of beans."

"Someone murdered the pigeon?"

"No, the Bird Lady of Hyde Park. She was my eyes and ears in the park and I am quite perturbed over the matter. And the man in the paper the other day—someone is killing the homeless of London. So if you would like to put this under the microscope and tell me what you see, I would be thrilled." Sherlock handed him a slide with a smear of pigeon goo on it and John happily complied. Sherlock said nothing about the incident of that afternoon, and John knew he would never bring it up. What John had done, the feeling behind it, it wasn't something Sherlock wanted to explore, which would be fine—except John was becoming less and less satisfied with their level of intimacies…which was just wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just spent the evening reading a few sherlock fics that were *much* better than this one. Damn. There are a lot of excellent writers in this fandom, which is more than I can say for most I normally write for. I will strive to do better from here on out.

This chapter is a little short. Sorry 'bout that. Next one is longer.

Sometimes I talk a lot about writing a fic in the author's notes, and sometimes not. Havent really talked about this one... I really love John and Sherlock's dynamic. John is in denial and Sherlock is so used to denying anything relating to human contact that he doesnt realize what's going on in John's head. But I think Irene Adler shook things up a little for both of them. I like to think that they are both taking their minds places they would not normally go. John is the easier of the two to write, which is why I'm in his POV, but I havent ruled out writing a bit from Sherlock's as well.

And as far as the case is concerned-no doubt Sherlock could solve it in minutes, but I'm not a mystery writer by any stretch, and its mostly there for them to have something to do, and because I liked the pigeon bit from the last chapter.

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Ch 3.

A stake out with Sherlock Holmes could be any number of things. From getting accused of being lovers at a restaurant, or, in this instance, sitting up a tree. "I think I'm losing feeling in my legs," John complained after four hours.

"Have you no stamina?" Sherlock asked.

"Hey—I have plenty of stamina, but I've been straddling this ruddy branch all night and I can't feel my bollocks. It's cold and I'm hungry, and nothing is happening. It's hardly my fault."

"Fine then." Sherlock swung down to the ground with the graceful ease of a cat. John tumbled out of the tree with only enough grace to not fall on his arse, but had to take pleasure in the slight limp Sherlock tried to hide as he started across the grass.

"We'll figure out who's doing this—don't worry."

Another homeless person had turned up dead—drugged before suffocated to death and dropped back at their favorite haunt. "I'm not worried, I'm pissed off," Sherlock said, but after all the time John had spent with the detective he knew one thing. Sherlock might use the homeless as runners and spies, but he cared about their well-being as well. He gave them money and sandwiches and once even the scarf from 'round his own neck, and he didn't like going about without a scarf. Those little kindnesses weren't just bribes, and John knew that somewhere deep inside Sherlock was more than pissed off.

"C'mon. Lets find a cafe and get a cuppa," John said and put a hand on Sherlock's lower back, like he was comforting a woman. He felt Sherlock flinch underneath his touch but he did not pull away, and they walked together like that until they got to the edge of the park and they were in public. He let his hand drop, and Sherlock did not say a word.

Adrenaline coursed through Johns veins, even as they sat together and Sherlock jotted down the case on a napkin. It was all about the work for him, even as John continued to reel from touching him. The case. There were no witnesses. Rohypnol was used to disorient them and take them off to...somewhere. According to Molly and the autopsies it had taken them several hours to die as they were suffocated to unconsciousness, only to be allowed to revive and be suffocated again.

"He's playing with them John," Sherlock said, back to his normal, emotionless self. "Like a child killing cats, just to see what it feels like."

John looked up from his cup. "Um, you never killed cats as a kid, did you?"

"Been talking to Sergeant Donovan again John?"

"I was just—never mind."

"Sociopath and psychopath are two entirely different things," Sherlock said.

"I don't think you're a sociopath," John said.

"What?"

"You're not a sociopath." Sherlock gave him one of his 'I'm deeply annoyed with you' looks, and John continued anyway. "I think you just say that to make yourself feel better."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Have you ever seen a therapist?"

"Not since university. Waste of time—I am perfectly well adjusted."

John shook his head but knew better than to press further. "So you think this is a thrill killing?"

"I think it started out that way. Now he's getting used to it—the murders are going to get more complex as he grows bored. The first man was killed quickly, efficiently, but the latest... " He took a long sip of his tea. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Maybe."

"How many people have you killed?"

John almost choked on his drink. "You can't ask me that!" he exclaimed.

"Why not?"

"Because—because you just don't ask soldiers that. It's traumatizing."

"You're not traumatized."

"Well, I'm not, but I'm not like most people, am I?"

"No you're not," Sherlock said with a smile, and John melted a little against his will. There was admiration in that smile.

"Thirteen, I think," John said. "It's hard to say exactly."

"What did it feel like?"

"I don't know...kind of...empty."

"Interesting."

"Have—have you ever-"

"No, no," Sherlock said. "I've never. I was just curious."

"Oh."

He picked up his cup and drained it. "Ready to head home?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

They took a cab back in silence. Sherlock was thinking about the case. John was thinking about Sherlock.

There was so much to him that he held back from John, and he hated it. He needed to know everything about Sherlock Holmes, including what he felt. There was emotion and pain and love in there, deep in there, somewhere. John needed to find it, to know that Sherlock could feel as much as he did.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Out of curiosity—this is a British show of course and there are a huge number of British readers for this fic—do you guys know who Jeffery Dahmer is over there? He's a serial killer who went after gay men and boys in the '80s in the US. I'm assuming all Americans know who he is, but I might be asking too much…I collect serial killers, plus he was a local boy (my high school lit teacher used to play tennis with him—yeah, I'm bragging). Anyway, famous gay serial killer, just gets a brief mention.

4.

"There is nothing elegant about this serial killer," Sherlock moaned for what had to be the tenth time over the course of the next day. "Murdering homeless people—who does that twice? Your first time out, sure, but no one does it twice, they go for prostitutes or gay men—"

"You're telling me you would prefer Jack the Ripper or Jeffery Dahmer? Do you have a favorite serial killer or is it a 'killer of the week' deal?" John asked, not particularly horrified. Some people collected baseball cards—others collected serial killers.

"Don't be ridiculous. Where's the pull in homeless people? Do they excite him? Why would they excite him? Was his mother homeless? It's usually a mother thing…I just don't get it."

"You don't usually care about a criminal's motive," John couldn't help but note. "Human emotions—not your thing."

"Just because one doesn't feel emotion doesn't mean one can't study it. I've read more psychology texts than you have."

"I'm sure you have," John agreed. "But just because you can match the clinical signs to a specific disorder doesn't mean you understand why people do the things they do."

"If you're trying to make me feel bad because there is one subject pertinent to my work that I don't understand, it's not going to work." He breathed in a deep breath and sat down on the couch. "You might consider it a handicap, but I see my lack of emotions as a safeguard against irrationality."

John sat down beside him, closer than a normal man would sit next to another normal man, but neither of them was normal. "You sound like a Vulcan."

"I don't know what that means."

"It's Star Trek—don't worry about it." Sherlock's hand was resting on the sofa cushion and John took a chance and put his own had over it.

Sherlock looked down at their hands and then straight forward, not looking at John. "I don't need comforting, John." Neither man moved their hands. "I'm fine."

"You would be better if you would just admit that you're not the sociopath you like to think you are." John knew he was pushing it, but he felt like he would do almost anything to get an emotional response out of Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled away and stood up. "Let it go."

"I just—"

Sherlock turned abruptly, snatching up his scarf and coat and pulling them on. "I'm going to the park to check on a few things."

"You mean check on the homeless people."

"Shut up." He slammed out of the room with as much fervor as one of his rants.

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Sherlock did not come back for hours. John paced the apartment. He checked on the blog and read comments about how cute they looked together and when were they announcing their engagement? God he hated that. The more famous they became, the more people said it. As if they knew him—as if they saw something he didn't. Preposterous!

Sherlock didn't come back in time for tea. John grew anxious.

John wandered into Sherlock's room. He knew it very well, what with performing police-like searches for drugs every few weeks. He didn't need to look to know that all of Sherlock's shirts were arranged from light to dark, or that he ordered his socks from newest to oldest so that they wore out evenly.

He also knew that Sherlock had no personal pictures of his family, no old year books, no mementos of past girlfriends. The only personal item in the room John had ever found was Irene Adler's phone, tossed casually in his bedside drawer next to a book, some loose change, and some scraps of music John couldn't read on a piece of notebook paper.

John opened the drawer and found the phone and the music. The man could feel _something_. Of course Irene Alder could get a reaction out of any man….except for John. Not an ounce of physical attraction towards the woman, but a frustrating, niggling urge of jealousy that grew worse every time Sherlock's phone would sigh. Oh, Sherlock could be caught emotionally off-guard. John had seen it. And he hated, _hated_ that Irene was the one who had done it.

_Why hadn't it been me?_

Ugh. He hated the things his brain had been saying lately.

He sifted through the contents of the drawer and found a pack of cigarettes. John sat on the bed and opened the box—there were three actual fags, two pre-rolled joints, and a tiny plastic bag of white power. John sighed and opened it, dipping in a finger and tasting the cocaine. Sherlock, Sherlock…there were better things out there than drugs. Why couldn't he see it? Why did it have to be drugs and loneliness with the man?

John shoved the box of illicit drugs back into the drawer and leaned back on the bed. He closed his eyes. If Sherlock would let someone in…if he would do that he wouldn't need drugs. If it wasn't going to be him, that was just fine. He could get over that (maybe) but someone to bring Sherlock out of whatever mental hell he had constructed for himself.

_Let it be me._

John turned his head to sniff the pillow—it smelled faintly of Sherlock's shampoo. It was citrusy and good, a scent he had come to associate with the man himself. What would Sherlock do if he got home and found John there, in his bed, sniffing at his pillows?

The thought was, unfortunately, arousing. It was that Adler woman's fault. She made Sherlock an object of lust, and suddenly John was more acutely aware of the other man as an _attractive_ man than ever before. But it was really his mind he loved him for.

_Loved. _

"Bugger this," John muttered to himself. He sat up, punched the pillow a few times to vent some of his frustration, and went back to make some tea and pretend everything was normal. He only just stepped into the living room when Sherlock barged back into the flat, causing his heart to start beating into over-drive again. Almost caught. It was less exhilarating than actually getting caught. He wanted to be caught again.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: We are getting closer to the delicious slashy bit at the end, and I think it's going to be worth the wait. (I'm working on it as I write this intro.) Two more chapters after this one, 3 max.

Ch 5

As it was, John didn't have a chance to get caught doing _anything_. Sherlock decided to go under cover the very next day.

"You're crazy," he said as he watched Sherlock change into a ripe smelling outfit he had acquired from one of the homeless men. Sherlock didn't ask him to leave, didn't turn away when he stripped down to his underwear and began putting on the filthy sweatpants and t-shirt. While he wanted to see Sherlock naked, this wasn't exactly what he had in mind and he couldn't appreciate the smooth pale skin or the bulge visible in his shorts…well, maybe he could a little.

"I'm not crazy, I'm thorough," Sherlock said, shoving a grey stocking cap over his head to hide his immaculate curls and pulling on a trench coat that looked like it had been pulled from the garbage and was too short in the sleeves. "The shoes don't fit though," he said.

John sighed. "Wait here."

He went to his room and retrieved the oldest, ugliest jumper he owned and his favorite running shoes, which Mrs. Hudson had declared to be a "cesspool." He brought them back and handed them to Sherlock. "You're going to get cold," he told his friend as Sherlock pulled the shoes on and eyed the jumper with dislike before giving in and shimmying out of the coat to put it on. "Do you have gloves?" Sherlock dug into the pockets of the coat and came up with one black leather driving glove, and one red mitten. "Don't do this," he pleaded. "It's dangerous. Where are you going to sleep? What are you going to eat?" _What if the killer targets you?_

"It's only for a few days, John," he said. "One can survive nearly anything for a few days. I will keep my mobile with me and check it a few times a day—no calls please. Just texts."

"Sherlock—"

"Don't come to the park. I don't want you giving me away." As John continued to protest Sherlock pushed past him in the doorway (a smelly experience) and disappeared into the bathroom. When he reappeared he was wearing a full beard and John didn't even recognize him. (He had always wondered about the very large make-up kit under the sink.) "Do I pass?"

"Yes," John had to admit. The man he knew had disappeared under hair and dirt in a fantastic way. Sherlock never failed to impress him over and over again.

"I'll be back as soon as I've cracked this case. You don't need to worry about me."

"I am going to worry," John said, his voice low and gruff to keep emotion out of his tone.

"Why?"

"Because!" _Just because…_ "Because you're my best friend and I don't want you getting yourself hurt or killed over a case, no matter whose life is at stake. You're—you're more important than they are." It was a horrible thing to say, but it was true.

Sherlock squinted at him from under the hat and the beard. "You of all people should be the one telling me to do this. You're the brave soldier that risked his life and killed for the freedom of others. If you can do that and I can't do this, what kind of man would that make me?"

"A safe one, you bloody idiot."

"My dear John, I can certainly take care of myself."

_His dear John?_

John leaned against the wall for support. "I'm going to check on you."

"No."

"What's so suspicious about giving a man some spare change?"

"Don't call me by name, don't speak to me at all. Understand?"

John gave him a tight-lipped nod, knowing this half-permission was the best he was going to get. He hated this. Hated it so much. "Three days and I'm dragging you back here—by the beard if necessary."

Sherlock grinned at him. "Alright."

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On the first night without Sherlock John slept in his bed, and yes, he was very ashamed of it. He started missing him before he was even gone. Sherlock had disappeared for a few days here and there before, top-secret cases John was not privy to due to some government secret or another, but he hated that Sherlock was so close and so far away at the same time. He wasn't really as worried as he had suggested to Sherlock, he just didn't want him to leave.

He went to the park. Found a tall, lean, bearded man wearing his jumper. Gave him a coffee and ten pounds before he realized that it wasn't Sherlock at all. The homeless man thanked him and shuffled away, and John swore at the nearest tree. Sherlock was going to make damn sure John did not contact him while he was gone.

On the way back to Baker street John pondered what that meant. Sherlock trusted him not to blow his cover. He knew John had more sense than that. Was he hiding from John? This was Sherlock Holmes. He knew everything, and John hadn't exactly been discreet lately.

They needed to talk. Sherlock needed to come home and John had to come clean about…about whatever was wrong with his brain…and then they had to deal with it. God, that was the last thing he wanted to do. He could restrain himself, he could behave and Sherlock would never see any outward sign of how he felt, but if Sherlock wanted him to leave…

He couldn't leave. He didn't know what he would do if Sherlock…well, he would refuse to, and that was all there was to it. His name was on the lease, Sherlock couldn't make him move out. He would stay and he would make, he would _make_ Sherlock—

_Make him what? What on earth are you thinking? Are you insane?_

His mobile beeped a text message. _I'll be home the day after tomorrow_, it read. Sherlock.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I was going to break this chapter off before I got to the good bits, but instead I'm going to tease you.

Thanks for the *ton* of comments I got last chapter. It was really great to come home to that after a crappy day at work.

I think Sherlock's characterization is extremely good in the second half of this chapter. John might be easier to write, but Sherlock is more fun.

Ch. 6

John was filled with nervous energy for the rest of the day, and sleeping in Sherlock's bed that night was next to impossible. He tossed and turned, his mind running wild.

Fuck this whole gay/not gay thing. It didn't matter because he wanted Sherlock more than he had wanted anyone else. Women were boring, people were boring. War was not boring. Fighting crime was not boring and above all, Sherlock Holmes was not boring.

John was beginning to realize that he could have been a dangerous man. If his parents had not raised him with love and kindness and good morals, he might have been the one out there thrill-killing just to make himself feel alive.

Sherlock made him feel alive. For the first time since the war, but that wasn't enough. He was going to drive himself insane talking to Sherlock, watching Sherlock every day, and never able to_ touch_. He wanted to touch him. He wanted to touch Sherlock Holmes, make him feel as alive as John did around him, because Sherlock Holmes was not alive. He was not a happy man. He was brilliant and he was odd, and people didn't like him for that. So he had pushed away every chance of happiness with another human being, and that wasn't right. John needed Sherlock to feel the same exhilaration he felt every day.

Finally, at two in the morning, he settled down, laying face first in Sherlock's pillow, the covers strewn around him. He had one hand around his cock, but it was more a comfort thing, and he pretended his hand was Sherlock's, and finally fell asleep.

The call came at five in the morning, but John was very awake when he picked up the phone. "Are you dead?"

"Would I be calling you if I were?" Sherlock replied. "I've got him. I'm three blocks from the park." John wrote down his exact coordinates as he spoke. "You can't miss it, there are police all over the place."

"I'll be right there."

John flew from Sherlock's bed and dressed so quickly he didn't bother with underwear, eager to get over there and find out exactly what was going on. He took an early morning cab and found several police cars, an ambulance, and Sherlock sitting on the back bumper of one of the police cars.

He was wearing a different jumper and the same coat and sweat pants. The awful beard and hat were gone, replaced by an impressive black eye and a bloody lip. John rushed to him, ignoring the police tape. "What happened?" he asked, immediately touching Sherlock's face to examine his injuries—at least, that's what he hoped he looked like he was doing.

"I'm fine. The paramedics already looked me over."

John still didn't let go, letting his fingers trace a bruise forming on Sherlock's jaw. "What happened to you?"

"Fistfight with a serial killer."

"Oh."

"I won."

"I assumed." John looked over and saw a man sitting in the back of one of the police vehicles. The man looked as disheveled as Sherlock, but other than that…. "He looks normal."

"He was. Richard Fenton. Up until eighteen months ago he was a software engineer with a wife and a mortgage, and he was completely normal. Now he lives in his car. As homeless as the rest of them." On the other side of the street a crew headed by police officers was loading a Citroen onto a flatbed. "He didn't look homeless yet, so when he offered them sandwiches laced with drugs, it didn't seem abnormal. Just a good Samaritan."

"Why did he do it?"

"He was bitter, and there was no one else to take it out on. As far as motives go it is quite boring." Sherlock stood up with a stretch, and then winced, but he pulled away when John reached to examine his ribs. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Please stop groping me in public. People will talk." John said things like that all the time, but it hurt when Sherlock said it. Sherlock wasn't supposed to notice or care. "Lestrade's done with me and I want to get out of here. I need a shower."

John did his best to smile. "Yes you do."

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Later, back at the flat, John lingered in the hall outside of the bathroom while Sherlock made loud, appreciative sounds in the shower, including phrases like "Gods, _yes_ that feels amazing!"

It had John a little on edge.

Finally Sherlock emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, usually pale skin red from the heat of the water. "John, you cannot possibly appreciate what being warm and clean truly feels like."

"Two tours in Afghanistan," John said. "I have a vague idea." His gaze passed over Sherlock's bare torso. He had scratches on his knees and forearms and a large, nasty bruise over his ribs. His face wasn't as bad as it had seemed at first, but he was not in the best of shape. "Let me examine you," John said, feeling as though he was going to burst. "I don't trust those EMTs."

"I'm sure you don't," Sherlock said. He padded past John and into his room, and it was only then that John remembered the state he had left the bed in. His body felt like ice. This was it. It had to be it.

He moved slowly into the room. Sherlock had his back to him, looking at the bed, and he did not turn to speak. "You slept in my bed while I was gone."

John's voice caught in his throat. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Don't pretend to be daft. You know why." His voice was little more than a whisper. He felt like stone, unable to move while every fear he had ever had about Sherlock washed over him.

Sherlock sighed and turned, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I don't want to have this conversation."

"I think we have to."

"Normal people just have to go and spoil everything. Isn't what we have good enough? Why do you and your stupid, normal feelings have to jeopardize things?"

"I'm not normal and neither is what I feel," John answered in even tones. "If-if I were normal I would have told you to sod off the first day we met instead of falling in love with you and everything you do."

Sherlock fell backwards on the bed with a moan and covered his eyes with his forearm. "Don't say love, John. I will detest you forever if you say that again."

"Why! Why is that so terrible, Sherlock?"

"People don't _love_ me. My own mother doesn't love me. Which is all fine and good because I don't care. But you! You say you love me and I care horribly and I hate it." John took the chance to step closer to him. His towel had come loose and was just draped over him, leaving one thigh and hip completely revealed. "Go away John."

John sat down beside him. "So…what does it mean that you care?"

"I wish I knew," Sherlock said from behind his arm. He wasn't looking which meant John could do this—

Sherlock's lips tasted like toothpaste and blood. At first his mouth was slack and unresponsive, but in a few moments he was kissing back. _Kissing back_, but before John could celebrate his triumph Sherlock tried to squirm away.

With a soldier's reaction (because making love to Sherlock Holmes was certainly going to be a war) John quickly threw one leg over Sherlock's middle, straddling him, grabbing his arms even as Sherlock's hands balled into fists, and in moments John Watson had a completely naked Sherlock Holmes pinned underneath him and entirely at his mercy.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Um, porn.

Ch 7

"You can't be serious," Sherlock said from underneath him. His voice was sarcastic but his eyes were wide and a little frightened.

"Look, I know you've never done this before—"

"Bloody Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.

"And maybe that's part of the problem."

"The only problem I have right now is _with you_, so if you would get off of me—" John interrupted Sherlock's protesting by leaning down and kissing him again, and after a moment Sherlock stopped struggling, and John felt his arms relax (though he didn't dare let go just yet). They kissed and it was so much better than kissing anyone else. This was right. Sherlock had to see that this was right.

"Not so bad, is it?" John said when they separated, feeling a little bit…superior…for the first time ever. Sherlock was the idiot now, and John, John was calling all the shots. He pressed his hips into Sherlock's and a shock of lust zapped through him. Oh he wanted him, so badly.

"I hate you," Sherlock said.

"Please Sherlock," John said. "Can't you let me give you what you need?"

"And what's that?"

"A damn good shag," John replied.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not—I can't—I-" He cut himself off and closed his eyes.

Sherlock was growing excited in spite of himself. John was pressed against him groin to groin, with only his trousers in between them, and he could tell. His actions, _his_, were turning on the apathetic, asexual Sherlock. He had never been so close to another man before, and he had never enjoyed anything so much. Okay. Maybe he was a little bit gay.

He put aside his own thrill at the situation to focus on his reluctant partner. "It's alright Sherlock," John whispered, leaning in close to the other man's ear. "I'll take care of you—I always take care of you, don't I?" He nipped at Sherlock's earlobe lightly with just his lips.

"John—" His entire body had begun to shake, and John became concerned. No matter what his intentions, permanently traumatizing his friend was not one of them. He let go of Sherlock's arms, but couldn't quite bring himself to climb off of Sherlock's quivering form, sitting up and sliding forward, keeping most of his weight on his legs. Sherlock could escape now if he really wanted to, but he didn't move.

"Sherlock? I'm sorry. I can stop."

"Okay."

"You want me to stop?" No answer. "Do you want me to keep going?"

Sherlock looked up at him, arms splayed out across the sheets, eyes bright and confused, the bruises and swollen lip looking awful and sexy at the same time (_I am a very bad man_, John thought). "I don't like feeling like this," Sherlock said after a long time.

"Like what?" John climbed off of him and stretched out beside him on the bed, getting a good look at Sherlock. The bruises and scrapes were lovely—he was a sick, sick man. Sherlock's cock, a bit long and not excessively thick, lay against his stomach among a nest of dark curls. No pubic grooming for Sherlock—who would he do it for?

Free of John, Sherlock sat up, but he did not move to cover himself. "I don't like talking about personal matters, which you well know." More silence. "I don't like wanting you."

"You want me?"

"I tried to stop. And if you could have just let well enough alone everything would have been fine, but you just had to be so _obvious_ about—you know."

"Why is this upsetting you so much?"

"I'm supposed to be above all of this, John. Human beings, rutting like animals. It's disgusting and I want nothing to do with it."

"I see." John stood up. "I guess I'll just leave and we can pretend none of this ever happened."

"Don't you dare."

John tried to hold in the manic grin beginning to form, but it was no good. Sherlock Holmes admitting to human weakness, admitting to wanting him! He launched himself at Sherlock, knocking him backwards on the bed. "Watch the ribs," Sherlock complained, and John ignored him, taking his face in both hands and kissing it all over.

He kissed and licked his way down Sherlock's neck, and the other man went still until John took one nipple into his mouth, and Sherlock let out a gasping yelp that surprised even John. He looked up and Sherlock had his arm over his face again, skin tinged with a reddening blush. "Oh this is terrible, John," he said. "You may have to gag me."

John continued to smile. Of course Sherlock would complain while getting it on. "Oh no," he said. "I want to hear everything. Maybe next time."

"We are _not_ doing this again." He propped himself up on his elbows.

_He knows he's lost control_, John thought. _He's trying to get it back_. "Oh yes we are. Every day, Sherlock. I want to do this to you every day." Sherlock glared at him and said nothing. Apparently he could only agree with silence. John was okay with that. He took his time exploring, and Sherlock seemed content to lay there and let him do as he wished. One of Sherlock's hands snaked up and grabbed John by the bicep through his shirt, but other than that he did not touch.

"You can take my shirt off if you want," John offered, and Sherlock reached out with long, trembling fingers and began to undo each button painfully slowly. He let one palm lay flat against the center of John's chest, and it was John's turn to let out a hissing response. A small smile played at Sherlock's mouth.

"That's it," John said, peeling the shirt off and throwing it aside. He shimmied out of his trousers with equal enthusiasm. "After all of this you're not getting the better of me," he said, even though he knew that from the very beginning, before he had ever realized it, Sherlock had always done just that. Well, now John was taking the upper hand. He was in control.

John reached over to the bedside table and grabbed at the tube of lube he had sort of left there the night before. "That is _not_ mine," Sherlock said, his annoyance greater than his need for just a moment. "John, you are disgusting."

"No I'm not," John said, pouring some into his hand and grasping at Sherlock's cock. His hand slid easily across his length, and Sherlock's complaining disintegrated into a series of small gasps and moans. Sherlock was new to all of this—he wasn't going to last long. John pulled his hand away after only a few strokes, and Sherlock began an incoherent murmur that ended in "kill you don't stop."

"I'm just getting started," John promised. John liked sex. In all variations. So while he might not have ever had sex with a man, he certainly knew his way around a bum. He slid his greased fingers across Sherlock's puckered hole, and Sherlock tensed again. "Do you trust me?"

More silence. "Sherlock, I know it's difficult, but I need you to communicate with me."

Sherlock was slow to answer and when he did his voice was hoarse. "You are the only person I've ever trusted." _Oh my god_, John thought. With that knowledge he had more power over Sherlock than anyone. If he were a good man he would stop, take things slow, but he had already established that he was bad.

"Turn on your side," John said. "It's more comfortable when you're just getting used to it." He moved up close behind Sherlock and kissed his shoulder blade, ran his fingers down his slim back. Oh he was glorious. Would this have been the same if Sherlock Holmes had been as frumpy and average as John himself? John didn't know the answer to that, and it didn't matter because Sherlock _was_ beautiful, and now not only did John have the privilege of looking at him every day, but he was going to fuck him as well.

Spooning up against Sherlock he pressed his cock against Sherlock's crack, causing his partner to hiss and tense again. John was so hard, and he wanted Sherlock so badly, but sex was not a chilly swimming pool. You couldn't dive in all at once.

Preparing more lube, he pressed and probed one finger against Sherlock's opening, slowly pushing inside. _Inside_. He continued to kiss Sherlock's back and neck, and worked one finger, and then eventually two, while Sherlock got used to having something inside of him. His moans and gasps of unknown-to-that-point pleasure came back, and he began to press backwards onto John's fingers, and he knew it was time.

He didn't warn Sherlock, didn't want his nervousness to return. He eased his fingers out slowly and continued to kiss and pet from behind him, replacing fingers with his cock. He eased in slowly, stopping when Sherlock let out a small grunt. "Keep going John," he said, and that was all the invitation he needed.

With one forceful thrust he buried himself inside Sherlock, the absolute thrill of it nearly sending him into convulsions himself. He went still for a few moments before pulling backward and thrusting forward again, and Sherlock cried out, but it was a good noise. John began a slow, gentle rocking and reached around to find Sherlock's cock, hard and leaking at the tip. Sherlock Holmes was getting turned on while being fucked in the ass by John Watson. John kept running this through his head, saying their names in his mind because it was so improbable and yet it was happening.

Sherlock began muttering John's name over and over again, and with a few grasping strokes of his hand and a well-timed hard thrust that buried him as deep inside Sherlock as he could get John felt Sherlock's orgasm shatter through every inch of his body. He went rigid all over and his ass clenched tightly around John's cock, causing him to climax as well, shooting deep inside him. John came with a growl and he clutched Sherlock tight and he was his his, all his forever, gasping and moaning as the orgasm took control of his senses, Sherlock Holmes losing control at John's hands and cock.

John found himself gasping and laughing, still buried inside Sherlock even as he began to soften. He eased out and Sherlock rolled over on his back. John wanted to just look at him, thoroughly debauched for the first time. There were tears in Sherlock's eyes.

"Was that okay?" John asked, his triumph dying a little. Sherlock was back to not replying to his direct questions. "Sherlock, please tell me you're okay." Panic began to set in, but Sherlock finally replied.

"I'm fine John."

John kissed those perfect cheekbones, tasting the salt on them. "Are you sure?"

"I've been crying for the last five minutes and I don't know why, but I'm pretty sure I'm fine. I don't hurt—well, my face hurts and my ribs hurt, but that has nothing to do with-"

"Those are emotions, Sherlock. That's why you're crying."

"I don't have emotions."

"Yes you do." John kissed him, and put an arm around him. He half expected Sherlock to shy away, but simply grabbed at John's wrist—the closest thing to a hug as he was willing or capable of doing.

John held Sherlock until he stopped crying, and then held him until John was half-asleep. "John," Sherlock murmured eventually. "I'm sticky and leaky I don't think I can move."

_Neither can I_, John thought but got up anyway and pulled Sherlock to his feet. The other man was still shaky, and after helping him into the shower he lingered in the bathroom and watched Sherlock's shadow behind the curtain. "I love you," he said aloud, not meaning to say it but meaning it all the same.

Sherlock turned off the water and pulled back the shower curtain. "How do you want me to reply to that?"

"You don't have to at all," John said. "You don't have to say anything."

"Okay then." He shut the curtain and turned the water back on. It was okay. He couldn't expect Sherlock to say what he felt, even though he knew it was there.

John went back to Sherlock's bedroom and surveyed the mess of lube and cum on the bed. He was fairly certain the bed had never seen that kind of action before. He pulled the top sheet up and climbed in on top of it, and a few minutes later Sherlock returned from his shower and got back into the bed without a word, going as far as to rest his head on John's shoulder and close his eyes.

He was asleep in minutes, and John realized how tired and stressed Sherlock probably was. Two nights out on the street, emotions were already high, and then…but John couldn't feel too guilty, holding a slumbering Sherlock in his arms. Triumph. There was a definite triumph, and all of the horrible nervous feelings he'd had for months were melting away into pure exultation. Sherlock was going to be fine. They both were.

His on exhaustion from a night of little sleep was finally catching up to him. John pulled the blankets up over both of their naked forms and he settled into the bed, falling asleep with his lover at his side.

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End Notes:

Getting Sherlock right was really important. It took me the better part of three days to write this chapter. And yes I realize its twice as long as my other chapters…I take crafting a sex scene very seriously. To be honest I had a hard time keeping John in the realm of "lover" and I could have let him go a little bit evil with Sherlock. Might have to do a dark!John fic.

I'm definitely not done writing Sherlock fics. I have a dozen scenarios running around in my brain and I want to write them all. Look forward to more from me, and thanks to everyone who's commented or favorited this fic.


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